Too Hot to Handle: A Loveswept Classic Romance (3 page)

“How’s that?” He simply couldn’t keep his eyes off her. That mass of dark hair tangling wildly across her face and those long, sun-kissed legs were totally distracting, not to mention the way her breasts never seemed to stay still behind the bib of her overalls. More than that, though, he liked her spirit. He lived a very quiet, regimented life, and she had brought a temporary wildness to it that he found intriguing.

“Matt, I’m sure John Henry didn’t really expect you to turn out to be a hot-blooded mountain man in disguise. By this time he thought I would have
chewed you up and spit you out. He probably thinks you’re halfway to Atlanta by now. Right?”

He nodded helplessly, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t be on his way.

“Let’s get even with him a little, Matt.”

“Fine. How?”

She turned around and sat down on the porch rail, swinging one leg as she began to think.

“Tell me exactly what you told John Henry, Matt.”

“I told him that I had come to make a legitimate offer for the convertible, provided it was the one I’ve been looking for. He explained that Mr. McKinnon had passed away and left his estate to his homely, old-maid granddaughter.” Matt added seriously, “I’m very sorry to hear about your grandfather’s death, Callie, but my offer for the car still stands.”

Callie looked at him regretfully. “Oh, I’m not going to sell Ruby. I’m sorry to have put you through all this and then have to turn you down. If you want to leave right now, I’ll understand. But”—she paused and smiled up at him—“I think it’ll be a lot more fun if you stay.”

“If you’ll let me see the car, I might be able to raise my offer, Callie.”

“It wouldn’t matter. I don’t care about money. Ruby’s not for sale at any price.”

“Could I at least have a look at … Rudy?”

“It’s Ruby, not Rudy. Sure. If you’ll stick around for lunch and help me get even with John Henry, I’ll let you see the car, though I can’t imagine what you’d get out of just looking at it.”

“Ruby, as you call her, isn’t just any car, not if my information is correct. And I’ll do whatever you want about John Henry, if you’ll consider my offer.”

“Maybe.” Callie’s grin suddenly reminded Matt of the coy expression John Henry had had on his face when he’d given the directions to Callie’s house. This wasn’t going to be easy, but Matt knew he’d get the car. He was an astute businessman, and he always got what he went after. Could it be, he wondered, that perhaps he wanted this brunette stranger more than he wanted the car?

“Let’s go, city slicker,” she ordered. She climbed off the porch rail and headed down the steps. “Watch out for William. I don’t think he can get out now, but I’ve been wrong before. He isn’t used to being confined.”

Matt took a worried look around the yard and hurried after her. He sighed in relief when they reached the barn and he saw the goat’s beady eyes peering at him through the fence of a large pen beside it.

“Eat dirt and die,” he whispered to William under his breath. William snorted.

Callie pulled a wide plank door back and led the way into the dusty old barn. She stood back and made a grand gesture.

“Matt, meet Ruby.”

Matt whistled in delight. Here it was, in all its glory, one of the few 1953 Fiesta convertibles in the United States. Here it was, parked in a dirty horse stall with a fat red chicken sitting on the back seat.

“Get that … that animal off of it!” he said fiercely.

“Shoo! Get off that car, Esmeralda. You’re supposed to be in your box laying eggs for lunch. Shoo!” Callie fanned her arms at the chicken, who let out a disgruntled squawk and half-flew, half-ran out of the shadowy barn.

“Does everything here have a name?” Matt asked sternly. He peered at the car closely to determine just what Esmeralda might have left there. This was a sacrilege, letting the barnyard fowl squat on his car. His car, yes. Satisfied that the Fiesta’s old upholstery was original, he relaxed.

“Yes,” Callie told him coolly, “everything has a name, including the vegetables in my garden. They like it when I talk to them personally. You ought to see my strawberries. They practically swell up and pop, trying to outgrow one another.”

Matt could understand that kind of reaction to Callie Carmichael. He’d experienced a similar kind of response when he’d kissed her. But now it was the car that captured his attention. He ran his fingertips along the fender, under the side windows, and across Ruby’s chrome grille. He squatted down and looked under the wheel well, opened the front door and closed it again, nodding in pleasure at the deep echo its closing made.

“You hear that? Solid as a drum. They don’t make them like this anymore. Real leather seats. She’s a jewel, all right. How does she run?”

“When John Henry’s tuned her up and put in a new battery she goes like the wind. Otherwise, she’s a little sluggish.”

“John Henry has seen the car? That old faker. I asked him if he’d seen it and he played like he didn’t know what I was talking about. Said I’d have to talk to you. I may have to have a word with him.”

“Well, that won’t be difficult. He’s coming here for lunch. And speaking of lunch, I’d better get it started. Come along. You’re going to help.”

Reluctantly, Matt gave the automobile a final caress
and turned to follow Callie back toward the house. William stretched his head over the fence and baaed, and Matt smiled victoriously at him.

Callie’s eyes were turned toward the sleek Corvette that sat under her oak trees. “Matt, that’s a classic, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I don’t suppose William can get out, can he? He looks like the kind of goat who’d chew on classic Corvettes.”

“Your car’s safe as long as William’s in prison. He doesn’t like anything new and different in his territory. He thinks he’s protecting me.”

“At least we have something in common.” Matt followed Callie up the back steps and onto a tiny screened-in porch outside the kitchen door.

“Good heavens,” Callie protested, “I don’t need a protector.”

“Out here in the wilds …”

“It’s safer here than in the city, Matt.”

“And what, pray tell, do you do for a living?”

“As little as possible.” They stepped into a cozy little kitchen with ancient appliances.

“Wow,” Matt said. “The last time I saw a refrigerator that old, it was in the Smithsonian.”

Callie twisted around and smiled at him. “You disapprove of my lazy lifestyle.”

“Not disapprove,” he said swiftly. “I don’t understand it. You’re obviously intelligent, and from the way you talk, well educated, I suspect.”

“And I’m perfectly content. I make baskets to sell to the tourists in Sweet Valley. I garden. I may not be rich, but I get by. I don’t need money and I don’t want money.” She reached up and took a basket from the top of the refrigerator, then handed it to
Matt for his inspection. “Oh, and I spend a great deal of time campaigning for various causes. I write a lot of letters and help organize rallies, mostly for nature projects and endangered historical sites.”

“Causes?” he repeated, and smiled. “Like ‘Save the Pink-Tipped, One-Eyed Gullywhumper’?”

Her offended gaze shot him down. “I didn’t think you’d understand or care,” she noted calmly. “I’m a conservationist and a preservationist.”

Matt gazed at her with admiration. “I apologize,” he said sincerely. “I appreciate your attitude, because I don’t like change either. In anything. I much prefer old things. People used to have pride in their work, and built things to last.”

Callie studied him in surprise. It amazed her to think that she and this businessman had something so elemental in common. “Maybe you’re okay, for a city slicker,” she offered.

“Ah. What a compliment.”

Smiling, Callie pushed open the screen door and motioned for Matt to follow her back into the yard. He carried the basket, studying it with interest. “This is very well made. I like it,” he said.

“I make my baskets out of wild grapevines and kudzu. The grapevines last. You just try to destroy that vine basket you’re holding. But the kudzu baskets don’t. Want to guess which ones I sell the most of? Kudzu.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the garden.”

“To get kudzu?”

“Not unless that’s what you want for lunch. I thought I’d cook something a little more ordinary.”

“Nothing’s ordinary around here,” he remarked
pleasantly. Matt fingered the thick basket. “You take pride in your work. I can tell. This is an art, not a manufacturing process. It’s really … very interesting.”

“Thank you.” Callie was absurdly pleased by his simple evaluation of her work. “Most people don’t appreciate good craftsmanship.”

“I do. Take that refrigerator. It’s like my paint. I’ll bet it’s at least twenty-five years old, and it’s still running. One you bought today wouldn’t last longer than ten years. Planned obsolescence.”

“You make paint?”

“My company makes paint,” he said.

So that was where the fine linen and the expensive-looking loafers and the Corvette came from, she thought wryly. Plain old paint. “What kind of paint?” she asked.

“Heavy-duty paint. For exterior use. I came up with the formula myself.”

“And what’s so special about your paint that could compare with my refrigerator and baskets?”

He chuckled. “It lasts twenty-five years under most conditions. I wouldn’t be involved in anything that couldn’t withstand the test of time. That’s why I collect old cars. They only get better.”

“And I’ll bet you still have all your toy soldiers wrapped in tissue paper and put away in a box. Your teddy bear probably still has both his eyes, too.”

Matt smiled at the accuracy of her thinking. His toys were still neatly preserved in his attic and his teddy bear definitely still had its eyes. He nodded.

“Not me,” Callie said fervently. “I loved my teddy so hard that there isn’t anything left except the
memory.” She came to a neat little garden that was surrounded by a fence, and opened the gate. “And I never knew a paint color that kept me interested for more than a year. A paint that lasts twenty-five years? Not for me. It’d be useless. I’d get bored and repaint just for the heck of it.” She motioned for Matt to come inside, latched the gate, and knelt in the loamy soil by a plot of short, bushy plants.

Matt exhaled slowly at the unexpected sensations that warmed him as he watched sunlight play off her dark hair. Her hands were tanned and callused. She was an earth mother who seemed at ease with her knees burrowed in the fragrant soil and her bare arms browning in the morning sun. The overalls pulled tightly across her hips and made her figure even more enticing.

“Callie?” His voice came out a little strained. “What are you looking for in those weeds?”

“These aren’t weeds; they’re strawberry plants. I’m picking strawberries for lunch. They don’t last very long, so I pick them as close to the time I serve them as possible. See?”

She held up a handful of plump red berries, and he awkwardly stuck the basket forward to catch them. She kept one, then put it in her mouth and sucked on it, drawing the pulp slowly inside. A drop of red juice trickled down her chin, and she caught it with her tongue, bringing the sweet liquid back inside her mouth. She appeared to be totally unaware of the effect she was having on him. He stared.

“Are you all right?” she asked suddenly. “You look a little odd.”

“Picking strawberries is hard work.”

She laughed and turned back to gather more. “Haven’t you ever picked them before?”

“Sure, right out of the ice in the fresh-vegetable section of the supermarket.”

Heedless of his white slacks, Matt got down on his knees beside her and began fishing gingerly for the soft berries. He wondered briefly what Phil Myers, his partner at Holland Paint, would do if he could see him now. Phil would have him committed, that was what he’d do.

“Here, try one, Mr. Paint King.” She held a berry up to his mouth and waited calmly for his lips to part.

Matt’s mouth fell open, and Callie slid the berry inside. “Simple pleasures, Matthew. They come to us, we enjoy them, and they’re gone.”

Like this minute with you, he thought wistfully.

His lips were a hot, damp pressure on her fingertips, and she nearly jerked her hand away. They looked at each other for a long moment, as if they were poised on the edge of some unknown abyss.

Finally she managed to speak. “Pick a couple of cups of the deep-red ones.” She stood up, stared at his upturned face for a moment, then walked quickly toward the gate.

“Where are you going, mountain woman?”

“To fix lunch. John Henry will be here in a few minutes, and I want to be sure everything is ready. Close the gate behind you. The only thing William likes better than wildflowers is this garden.”

Matt watched the lithe movements of her slender body as she walked back toward the house. He felt perspiration roll down his face and spot his custom-made shirt. He put the basket down and removed
the shirt and his undershirt, then tossed them in a heap behind him. If he was going to turn farmer, he was going to have to get some overalls of his own.

“Old MacHolland had a farm,” he sang softly. “And on that farm he had an antique car.” But as he picked the berries it wasn’t the Fiesta that made him hurry, it was the woman who believed in simple pleasures.

“Well … I see you found her.”

Matt looked up from his strawberry picking. Leaning over the fence was the tall, thin man from the garage. He was grinning broadly, shuffling a wooden matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. He shooed a spring butterfly away from his khaki coveralls.

“Yes, indeed, I found her. Thanks,” Matt answered calmly. He knew John Henry was waiting for some reaction, some indication of what his little game had accomplished, but Matt just smiled at him as he went through the gate and started toward the house.

He heard John Henry trailing behind him, muttering under his breath. “Well, old man … he hasn’t run off, so she didn’t take him apart. Maybe you misjudged her. What do you think now?”

Matt turned around and started to answer.

“I think, old man,” John Henry answered himself without giving Matt a chance to speak, “I think you don’t believe what you’re seeing. She’s got this idiot picking berries in his fancy pants and pointy-toed shoes.”